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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series

Sappho and Phaon: in a series of legitimate sonnets, with thoughts on poetical subjects, and anecdotes of the Grecian poetess

Robinson, Mary

Printed by S. Gosnell, for the Author, and sold by Hookham and Carpenter
London,
1796

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SAPPHO AND PHAON.
IN ASERIES
OF
Legitimate Sonnets,
WITH
THOUGHTS ON POETICAL SUBJECTS,
ANDANECDOTES
OF THE
GRECIAN POETESS.

MARY ROBINSON,

PREFACE.

IT
must strike every admirer of poetical compositions, that the modern sonnet, concluding
with two lines, winding up the sentiment of the
whole, confines the poet's fancy, and frequently
occasions an abrupt termination of a beautiful and
interesting picture; and that the ancient, or what
is generally denominated, the LEGITIMATE SONNET
, may be carried on in a series of sketches,
composing, in parts, one historical or imaginary
subject, and forming in the whole a complete and
connected story.

With this idea, I have ventured to compose the
following collection; not presuming to offer them

as imitations of PETRARCH
, but as specimens of
that species of sonnet writing, so seldom attempted
in the English language; though adopted by that
sublime Bard, whose Muse produced the grand
epic of Paradise Lost, and the humbler effusion,
which I produce as an example of the measure to
which I allude, and which is termed by the most
classical writers, the legitimate sonnet.

"O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
"Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
"Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
"While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
"Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day
"First heard before the shallow cuccoo's bill,
"Portend success in love; O if Jove's will
"Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay,
"Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
"Foretel my hopeless doom in some grove nigh,
"As thou from year to year hast sung too late
"For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:
"Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate,
"Both them I serve, and of their train am I."

To enumerate the variety of authors who have
written sonnets of all descriptions, would be endless; indeed few of them deserve notice: and where,
among the heterogeneous mass of insipid and laboured efforts, sometimes a bright gem sheds lustre
on the page of poesy, it scarcely excites attention,
owing to the disrepute into which sonnets are fallen.
So little is rule attended to by many, who profess
the art of poetry, that I have seen a composition of
more than thirty lines, ushered into the world under
the name of Sonnet, and that, from the pen of a
writer, whose classical taste ought to have avoided
such a misnomer.

Doctor Johnson describes a Sonnet, as "a short
poem, consisting of fourteen lines, of which the
rhymes are adjusted by a particular rule." He
further adds, "It has not been used by any man of
eminence since MILTON
."*

* Since the death of Doctor Johnson a few ingenious and
elegant writers have composed sonnets, according to the rules described by him: of their merits the public will judge, and the
literati
decide. The following quotations are given as the opinions of living authors, respecting the legitimate sonnet.

"The little poems which are here called Sonnets have, I
believe, no very just claim to that title: but they consist of
fourteen lines, and appear to me no improper vehicle for a single
sentiment. I am told, and I read it as the opinion of very good
judges, that the legitimate sonnet is ill calculated for our
language. The specimens Mr. Hayley has given, though they
form a strong exception, prove no more, than that the difficulties
of the attempt vanish before uncommon powers."Mrs. C. Smith's Preface to her Elegiac Sonnets.

Likewise in the preface to a volume of very charming poems,
(among which are many legitimate sonnets
) by Mr. William
Kendall, of Exeter, the following opinion is given of the Italian
rythm
, which constitutes the legitimate sonnet: he describes
it as--

"A chaste and elegant model, which the most enlightened
poet of our own country disdained not to contemplate. Amidst
the degeneracy of modern taste, if the studies of a Milton have
lost their attraction, legitimate sonnets, enriched by varying
pauses, and an elaborate recurrence of rhyme, still assert their superiority over those tasteless and inartificial productions, which
assume the name, without evincing a single characteristic of
distinguishing modulation."

Sensible of the extreme difficulty I shall have to
encounter, in offering to the world a little wreath,

wreath,
gathered in that path, which, even the best
poets have thought it dangerous to tread; and knowing that the English language is, of all others, the
least congenial to such an undertaking, (for, I believe, that the construction of this kind of sonnet
was originally in the Italian, where the vowels are
used almost every other letter,) I only point out the
track where more able pens may follow with success; and where the most classical beauties may be
adopted, and drawn forth with peculiar advantage.

Sophisticated sonnets are so common, for every
rhapsody of rhyme, from six lines to sixty comes
under that denomination, that the eye frequently
turns from this species of poem with disgust.
Every school-boy, every romantic scribbler, thinks
a sonnet a task of little difficulty. From this ig-

norance in some, and vanity in others, we see the
monthly and diurnal publications abounding with
ballads, odes, elegies, epitaphs, and allegories, the
non-descript ephemera from the heated brains of
self-important poetasters, all ushered into notice
under the appellation of SONNET
!

I confess myself such an enthusiastic votary of
the Muse, that any innovation which seems to
threaten even the least of her established rights,
makes me tremble, lest that chaos of dissipated
pursuits which has too long been growing like an
overwhelming shadow, and menacing the lustre of
intellectual light, should, aided by the idleness of
some, and the profligacy of others, at last obscure
the finer mental powers, and reduce the dignity of
talents to the lowest degradation.

As poetry has the power to raise, so has it also
the magic to refine. The ancients considered the

art of such importance, that before they led forth
their heroes to the most glorious enterprizes, they
animated them by the recital of grand and harmonious compositions. The wisest scrupled not to
reverence the invocations of minds, graced with
the charm of numbers: so mystically fraught are
powers said to be, which look beyond the surface
of events, that an admired and classical writer,*
describing the inspirations of the MUSE
, thus expresses his opinion:
"So when remote futurity is brought
"Before the keen inquiry of her thought,
"A terrible sagacity informs
"The Poet's heart, he looks to distant storms,
"He hears the thunder ere the tempest low'rs,
"And, arm'd with strength surpassing human pow'rs,
"Seizes events as yet unknown to man,
"And darts his soul into the dawning plan.
"Hence in a Roman mouth the graceful name
"Of Prophet and of Poet was the same,
"Hence British poets too the priesthood shar'd,
"And ev'ry hallow'd druid--was a bard."

*Cowper.

That poetry ought to be cherished as a national
ornament, cannot be more strongly exemplified
than in the simple fact, that, in those centuries
when the poets' laurels have been most generously
fostered in Britain, the minds and manners of the
natives have been most polished and enlightened.
Even the language of a country refines into purity
by the elegance of numbers: the strains of WALLER
have done more to effect that, than all the
labours of monkish pedantry, since the days of
druidical mystery and superstition.

Though different minds are variously affected
by the infinite diversity of harmonious effusions,
there are, I believe, very few that are wholly
insensible to the powers of poetic compositions.
Cold must that bosom be, which can resist the
magical versification of Eloisa to Abelard; and
torpid to all the more exalted sensations of the soul
is that being, whose ear is not delighted by the

grand and sublime effusions of the divine Milton!
The romantic chivalry of Spencer vivifies the
imagination; while the plaintive sweetness of Collins
soothes and penetrates the heart. How much
would Britain have been deficient in a comparison
with other countries on the scale of intellectual
grace, had these poets never existed! yet it is a
melancholy truth, that here, where the attributes
of genius have been diffused by the liberal hand of
nature, almost to prodigality, there has not been,
during a long series of years, the smallest mark of
public distinction bestowed on literary talents.
Many individuals, whose works are held in the
highest estimation, now that their ashes sleep in
the sepulchre, were, when living, suffered to languish, and even to perish, in obscure poverty: as
if it were the peculiar fate of genius, to be neglected while existing, and only honoured when
the consciousness of inspiration is vanished for
ever.

The ingenious mechanic has the gratification of
seeing his labours patronized, and is rewarded for
his invention while he has the powers of enjoying
its produce. But the Poet's life is one perpetual
scene of warfare: he is assailed by envy, stung by
malice, and wounded by the fastidious comments
of concealed assassins. The more eminently
beautiful his compositions are, the larger is the
phalanx he has to encounter; for the enemies of
genius are multitudinous.

It is the interest of the ignorant and powerful,
to suppress the effusions of enlightened minds:
when only monks could write, and nobles read,
authority rose triumphant over right; and the slave,
spell-bound in ignorance, hugged his fetters without repining. It was then that the best powers of
reason lay buried like the gem in the dark mine;
by a slow and tedious progress they have been
drawn forth, and must, ere long, diffuse an uni-

versal lustre: for that era is rapidly advancing,
when talents will tower like an unperishable column, while the globe will be strewed with the
wrecks of superstition.

As it was the opinion of the ancients, that poets
possessed the powers of prophecy, the name was
consequently held in the most unbounded veneration. In less remote periods the bard has been
publicly distinguished; princes and priests have
bowed before the majesty of genius: Petrarch was
crowned with laurels, the noblest diadem, in the
Capitol of Rome: his admirers were liberal; his
cotemporaries
were just; and his name will stand
upon record, with the united and honourable testimony of his own talents, and the generosity of his
country.

It is at once a melancholy truth, and a national
disgrace, that this Island, so profusely favoured by

nature, should be marked, of all enlightened
countries, as the most neglectful of literary merit!
and I will venture to believe, that there are both
POETS
and PHILOSOPHERS
, now living in Britain,
who, had they been born in any other
clime, would
have been honoured with the proudest distinctions,
and immortalized to the latest posterity.

I cannot conclude these opinions without paying
tribute to the talents of my illustrious countrywomen;
who, unpatronized by courts, and
protected by the powerful, persevere in the paths
of literature, and ennoble themselves by the unperishable lustre of MENTAL PRE-EMINENCE
!

TO THE
READER.

THE
story of the
LESBIAN
MUSE
, though not
new to the classical reader, presented to my imagination such a lively example of the human mind, enlightened by the most exquisite talents, yet yielding to
the destructive controul of ungovernable passions, that
I felt an irresistible impulse to attempt the delineation
of their progress; mingling with the glowing picture
of her soul, such moral reflections, as may serve to exite
that pity, which, while it proves the susceptibility of
the heart, arms it against the danger of indulging a
too luxuriant fancy.

OVID
and
POPEhave celebrated the passion of Sappho for
Phaon; but their portraits, however beautifully
finished, are replete with shades, tending rather to depreciate than to adorn the Grecian Poetess.

I have endeavoured to collect, in the succeeding
pages, the most liberal accounts of that illustrious
woman, whose fame has transmitted to us some fragments
of her works, through many dark ages, and for the
space of more than two thousand years. The merit
of her compositions must have been indisputable, to have
left all contemporary female writers in obscurity; for
it is known, that poetry was, at the period in which
she lived, held in the most sacred veneration; and
that those who were gifted with that divine inspiration, were ranked as the first class of human beings.

Among the many Grecian writers, Sappho was the
unrivalled poetess of her time: the envy she excited,
Page 19

the public honours she received, and the fatal passion
which terminated her existence, will, I trust, create
that sympathy in the mind of the susceptible reader,
which may render the following poetical trifles not
wholly uninteresting

ACCOUNTOF
SAPPHO.

SAPPHO
, whom the ancients distinguished by
the title of the TENTH MUSE
, was born at Mytilene
in the island of Lesbos, six hundred years before
the Christian era. As no particulars have
been transmitted to posterity, respecting the origin
of her family, it is most likely she derived but
little consequence from birth or connections. At
an early period of her life she was wedded to Cercolus,
a native of the isle of Andros; he was possessed
of considerable wealth, and though the Lesbian
Muse is said to have been sparingly gifted with

beauty, he became enamoured of her, more perhaps
on account of mental, than personal charms.
By this union she is said to have given birth to a
daughter; but Cercolus leaving her, while young,
in a state of widowhood, she never after could be
prevailed on to marry.

The Fame which her genius spread even to the
remotest parts of the earth, excited the envy of
some writers who endeavoured to throw over her
private character, a shade, which shrunk before the
brilliancy of her poetical talents. Her soul was
replete with harmony; that harmony which neither
art nor study can acquire; she felt the intuitive
superiority, and to the Muses she paid unbounded
adoration.

The Mytilenians held her poetry in such high
veneration, and were so sensible of the honour
conferred on the country which gave her birth, that

they coined money with the impression of her
head; and at the time of her death, paid tribute to
her memory, such as was offered to sovereigns
only.

The story of Antiochus has been related as an
unequivocal proof of Sappho's skill in discovering,
and powers of describing the passions of the
human mind. That prince is said to have entertained
a fatal affection for his mother-in-law Stratonice; which, though he endeavoured to subdue
it's
influence, preyed upon his frame, and after
many ineffectual struggles, at length reduced him
to extreme danger. His physicians marked the
symptoms attending his malady, and found them
so exactly correspond with Sappho's delineation of
the tender passion, that they did not hesitate to
form a decisive opinion on the cause, which had
produced so perilous an effect.

That Sappho was not insensible to the feelings
she so well described, is evident in her writings:
but it was scarcely possible, that a mind so exquisitely tender, so sublimely gifted, should escape
those fascinations which even apathy itself has been
awakened to acknowledge.

The scarce specimens now extant, from the pen
of the Grecian Muse, have by the most competent
judges been esteemed as the standard for the
pathetic, the glowing, and the amatory. The
ode, which has been so highly estimated, is written
in a measure distinguished by the title of the Sapphic.
POPE
made it his model in his juvenile production, beginning--
"Happy the man--whose wish and care"--

Addison was of opinion
, that the writings of Sappho
were replete with such fascinating beauties,
and adorned with such a vivid glow of sensibility,

that, probably, had they been preserved entire, it
would have been dangerous to have perused them.
They possessed none of the artificial decorations of
a feigned passion; they were the genuine effusions
of a supremely enlightened soul, labouring to subdue a fatal enchantment; and vainly opposing the
conscious pride of illustrious fame, against the
warm susceptibility of a generous bosom.

Though few stanzas from the pen of the Lesbian
poetess have darted through the shades of oblivion;
yet, those that remain are so exquisitely
touching and beautiful, that they prove beyond
dispute the taste, feeling, and inspiration of the
mind which produced them. In examining the
curiosities of antiquity, we look to the perfections,
and not the magnitude of those reliques, which
have been preserved amidst the wrecks of time:
as the smallest gem that bears the fine touches of a
master, surpasses the loftiest fabric reared by the

labours of false taste, so the precious fragments of
the immortal Sappho, will be admired, when the
voluminous productions of inferior poets are
mouldered into dust.

When it is considered, that the few specimens
we have of the poems of the Grecian Muse, have
passed through three and twenty centuries, and
consequently through the hands of innumerable
translators: and when it is known that Envy
frequently delights in the base occupation of
depreciating merit which it cannot aspire to emulate;
it may be conjectured, that some passages are
erroneously given to posterity, either by ignorance
or design. Sappho, whose fame beamed round
her with the superior effulgence which her works
had created, knew that she was writing for future
ages: it is not therefore natural that she should
produce any composition which might tend to tarnish her reputation, or to lessen that celebrity

which it was the labour of her life to consecrate.
The delicacy of her sentiments cannot find a
more eloquent advocate than in her own effusions;
she is said to have commended in the most animated
panegyric, the virtues of her brother Lanychus;
and with the most pointed and severe censure, to
have contemned the passion which her brother
Charaxus entertained for the beautiful Rhodope.
If her writings were, in some instances, too glowing
for the fastidious refinement of modern times;
let it be her excuse, and the honour of her country,
that the liberal education of the Greeks was
such, as inspired them with an unprejudiced
enthusiasm for the works of genius: and that when
they paid adoration to Sappho, they idolized the
MUSE
, and not the WOMAN
.

I shall conclude this account with an extract
from the works of the learned and enlightened
ABBÉ
BARTHELEMI
; at once the vindication and eulogy
of the Grecian Poetess.

"SAPPHO
undertook to inspire the Lesbian
women with a taste for literature; many of
them received instructions from her, and foreign
women increased the number of her disciples.
She loved them to excess, because it was impossible
for her to love otherwise; and she expressed
her tenderness in all the violence of passion:
your surprize at this will cease, when you are
acquainted with the extreme sensibility of the
Greeks; and discover, that amongst them the
most innocent connections often borrow the
impassioned language of love.

"A certain facility of manners, she possessed;
and the warmth of her expressions were but too
well calculated to expose her to the hatred of
some women of distinction, humbled by her
superiority; and the jealousy of some of her
disciples, who happened not to be the objects
of her preference. To this hatred she replied

by truths and irony, which completely exasperated
her enemies. She repaired to Sicily, where
a statue was erected to her; it was sculptured
by SILANION
, one of the most celebrated staturists
of his time. The sensibility of SAPPHO
was extreme! she loved PHAON
, who forsook
her; after various efforts to bring him back,
she took the leap of Leucata,*
and perished in
the waves!

"Death has not obliterated the stain imprinted
on her character; for ENVY
, which fastens on
ILLUSTRIOUS NAMES
, does not expire; but

* Leucata was a promontory of Epirus, on the top of which
stood a temple dedicated to Apollo. From this promontory
despairing lovers threw themselves into the sea, with an idea,
that, if they survived, they should be cured of their hopeless
passions. The Abbé Barthelemi says, that, "many escaped,
but others having perished, the custom fell into disrepute;
and at length was wholly abolished."--Vide Travels of Anacharsis the Younger.

SONNET II.

HIGH
on a rock, coæval with the skies,
A Temple stands, rear'd by immortal pow'rs
To Chastity divine! ambrosial flow'rs
Twining round icicles, in columns rise,
Mingling with pendent gems of orient dyes!
Piercing the air, a golden crescent tow'rs,
Veil'd by transparent clouds; while smiling hours
Shake from their varying wings--celestial joys!
The steps of spotless marble, scatter'd o'er
With deathless roses arm'd with many a thorn,
Lead to the altar. On the frozen floor,
Studded with tear-drops petrified by scorn,
Pale vestals kneel the Goddess to adore,
While Love, his arrows broke, retires forlorn.

SONNET V.

O! How can LOVE
exulting Reason quell!
How fades each nobler passion from his gaze!
E'en Fame, that cherishes the Poet's lays,
That fame, ill-fated Sappho lov'd so well.
Lost is the wretch, who in his fatal spell
Wastes the short Summer of delicious days,
And from the tranquil path of wisdom strays,
In passion's thorny wild, forlorn to dwell.
O ye! who in that sacred Temple smile
Where holy Innocence resides enshrin'd;
Who fear not sorrow, and who know not guile,
Each thought compos'd, and ev'ry wish resign'd;
Tempt not the path where pleasure's flow'ry wile
In sweet, but pois'nous fetters, holds the mind.

SONNET VI.

IS
it to love, to fix the tender gaze,
To hide the timid blush, and steal away;
To shun the busy world, and waste the day
In some rude mountain's solitary maze?
Is it to chant one
name in ceaseless lays,
To hear no words that other tongues can say,
To watch the pale moon's melancholy ray,
To chide in fondness, and in folly praise?
Is it to pour th' involuntary sigh,
To dream of bliss, and wake new pangs to prove;
To talk, in fancy, with the speaking eye,
Then start with jealousy, and wildly rove;
Is it to loath the light, and wish to die?
For these I feel,--and feel that they are Love.

SONNET VIII.

WHY
, through each aching vein, with lazy pace
Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart,
While, from its source, each wild convulsive start
Tears the scorch'd roses from my burning face?
In vain, O Lesbian Vales! your charms I trace;
Vain is the poet's theme, the sculptor's art;
No more the Lyre its magic can impart,
Though wak'd to sound, with more than mortal grace!
Go, tuneful maids, go bid my Phaon prove
That passion mocks the empty boast of fame;
Tell him no joys are sweet, but joys of love,
Melting the soul, and thrilling all the frame!
Oh! may th' ecstatic thought his bosom move,
And sighs of rapture, fan the blush of shame!

SONNET IX.

YE
, who in alleys green and leafy bow'rs,
Sport, the rude children of fantastic birth;
Where frolic nymphs, and shaggy tribes of mirth,
In clam'rous revels waste the midnight hours;
Who, link'd in flaunting bands of mountain flow'rs,
Weave your wild mazes o'er the dewy earth,
Ere the fierce Lord of Lustre rushes forth,
And o'er the world his beamy radiance pours!
Oft has your clanking cymbal's madd'ning strain,
Loud ringing through the torch-illumin'd grove,
Lur'd my lov'd Phaon from the youthful train,
Through rugged dells, o'er craggy rocks to rove;
Then how can she his vagrant heart detain,
Whose Lyre throbs only to the touch of Love ?

SONNET X.

DANG'ROUS
to hear, is that melodious tongue,
And fatal to the sense those murd'rous eyes,
Where in a sapphire sheath, Love's arrow lies,
Himself conceal'd the crystal haunts among!
Oft o'er that form, enamour'd have I hung,
On that smooth cheek to mark the deep'ning dyes,
While from that lip the fragrant breath would rise,
That lip, like Cupid's bow with rubies strung!
Still let me gaze upon that polish'd brow,
O'er which the golden hair luxuriant plays;
So, on the modest lily's leaves of snow
The proud Sun revels in resplendent rays!
Warm as his beams this sensate heart shall glow,
Till life's last hour, with Phaon's self decays!

SONNET XII.

NOW
, o'er the tessellated pavement strew
Fresh saffron, steep'd in essence of the rose,
While down yon agate column gently flows
A glitt'ring streamlet of ambrosial dew!
My Phaon smiles! the rich carnation's hue,
On his flush'd cheek in conscious lustre glows,
While o'er his breast enamour'd Venus throws
Her starry mantle of celestial blue!
Breathe soft, ye dulcet flutes, among the trees
Where clust'ring boughs with golden citron twine,
While slow vibrations, dying on the breeze,
Shall soothe his soul with harmony divine!
Then let my form his yielding fancy seize,
And all his fondest wishes, blend with mine.

SONNET XIV.

COME, soft Æolian harp, while zephyr plays
Along the meek vibration of thy strings,
As twilight's hand her modest mantle brings,
Blending with sober grey, the western blaze!
O! prompt my Phaon's dreams with tend'rest lays,
Ere night o'ershade thee with its humid wings,
While the lorn Philomel his sorrow sings
In leafy cradle, red with parting rays!
Slow let thy dulcet tones on ether glide,
So steals the murmur of the am'rous dove;
The mazy legions swarm on ev'ry side,
To lulling sounds the sunny people move!
Let not the wise their little world deride,
The smallest sting can wound the breast of Love.

SONNET XV.

NOW
, round my favour'd grot let roses rise,
To strew the bank where Phaon wakes from rest;
O! happy buds! to kiss his burning breast,
And die, beneath the lustre of his eyes!
Now, let the timbrels echo to the skies,
Now damsels sprinkle cassia on his vest,
With od'rous wreaths of constant myrtle drest,
And flow'rs, deep tinted with the rainbow's dyes!
From cups of porphyry let nectar flow,
Rich as the perfume of Phoenicia's vine!
Now let his dimpling cheek with rapture glow,
While round his heart love's mystic fetters twine;
And let the Grecian Lyre its aid bestow,
In songs of triumph, to proclaim him mine!

SONNET XX.

OH
! I could toil for thee o'er burning plains;
Could smile at poverty's disastrous blow;
With thee, could wander 'midst a world of snow,
Where one long night o'er frozen Scythia reigns.
Sever'd from thee, my sick'ning soul disdains
The thrilling thought, the blissful dream to know,
And can'st thou give my days to endless woe,
Requiting sweetest bliss with cureless pains?
Away, false fear! nor think capricious fate
Would lodge a dæmon in a form divine!
Sooner the dove shall seek a tyger mate,
Or the soft snow-drop round the thistle twine;
Yet, yet, I dread to hope, nor dare to hate,
Too proud to sue! too tender to resign!

SONNET XXI.

WHY
do I live to loath the cheerful day,
To shun the smiles of Fame, and mark the hours
On tardy pinions move, while ceaseless show'rs
Down my wan cheek in lucid currents stray?
My tresses all unbound, nor gems display,
Nor scents Arabian! on my path no flow'rs
Imbibe the morn's resuscitating pow'rs,
For one blank sorrow, saddens all my way!
As slow the radiant Sun of reason rose,*
Through tears my dying parents saw it shine;
A brother's frailties, swell'd the tide of woes,--
And, keener far, maternal griefs were mine!
Phaon! if soon these weary eyes shall close,
Oh! must that task, that mournful task, be thine?

SONNET XXVI.

WHERE
antique woods o'er-hang the mountain's crest,
And mid-day glooms in solemn silence lour;
Philosophy, go seek a lonely bow'r,
And waste life's fervid noon in fancied rest.
Go, where the bird of sorrow weaves her nest,
Cooing, in sadness sweet, through night's dim hour;
Go, cull the dew-drops from each potent flow'r
That med'cines to the cold and reas'ning breast!
Go, where the brook in liquid lapse steals by,
Scarce heard amid'st the mingling echoes round,
What time, the moon fades slowly down the sky,
And slumb'ring zephyrs moan, in caverns bound:
Be these thy pleasures, dull Philosophy!
Nor vaunt the balm, to heal a lover's wound.

SONNET XXVII.

OH
! ye bright Stars! that on the Ebon fields
Of Heav'n's vast empire, trembling seem to stand;
'Till rosy morn unlocks her portal bland,
Where the proud Sun his fiery banner wields!
To flames, less fierce than mine, your lustre yields,
And pow'rs more strong my countless tears command;
Love strikes the feeling heart with ruthless hand,
And only spares the breast which dullness shields!
Since, then, capricious nature but bestows
The fine affections of the soul, to prove
A keener sense of desolating woes,
Far, far from me the empty boast remove;
If bliss from coldness, pain from passion flows,
Ah! who would wish to feel, or learn to love?

SONNET XXVIII.

WEAK
is the sophistry, and vain the art
That whispers patience to the mind's despair!
That bids reflection bathe the wounds of care,
While Hope, with pleasing phantoms, soothes their smart;
For mem'ry still, reluctant to depart
From the dear spot, once rich in prospects fair,
Bids the fond soul enamour'd linger there,
And its least charm is grateful to the heart!
He never lov'd, who could not muse and sigh,
Spangling the sacred turf with frequent tears,
Where the small rivulet, that ripples by,
Recalls the scenes of past and happier years,
When, on its banks he watch'd the speaking eye,
And one sweet smile o'erpaid an age of fears!

*Vide Sappho's Ode.

SONNET XXXIII.

I WAKE
! delusive phantoms hence, away!
Tempt not the weakness of a lover's breast;
The softest breeze can shake the halcyon's nest,
And lightest clouds o'ercast the dawning ray!
'Twas but a vision! Now, the star of day
Peers, like a gem on Ætna's burning crest!
Wellcome, ye Hills, with golden vintage drest;
Sicilian forests brown, and vallies gay!
A mournful stranger, from the Lesbian Isle,
Not strange, in loftiest eulogy of Song!
She, who could teach the Stoic's cheek to smile,
Thaw the cold heart, and chain the wond'ring throng,
Can find no balm, love's sorrows to beguile;
Ah! Sorrows known too soon! and felt too long!

* Pope.

SONNET XXXVI.

LEAD
me, Sicilian Maids, to haunted bow'rs,
While yon pale moon displays her faintest beams
O'er blasted woodlands, and enchanted streams,
Whose banks infect the breeze with pois'nous flow'rs.
Ah! lead me, where the barren mountain tow'rs,
Where no sounds echo, but the night-owl's screams,
Where some lone spirit of the desart gleams,
And lurid horrors wing the fateful hours!
Now goaded frenzy grasps my shrinking brain,
Her touch absorbs the crystal fount of woe!
My blood rolls burning through each gasping vein;
Away, lost Lyre! unless thou can'st bestow
A charm, to lull that agonizing pain,
Which those who never lov'd, can never know!

SONNET XXXVIII.

OH
Sigh! thou steal'st, the herald of the breast,
The lover's fears, the lover's pangs to tell;
Thou bid'st with timid grace the bosom swell,
Cheating the day of joy, the night of rest!
Oh! lucid Tears! with eloquence confest,
Why on my fading cheek unheeded dwell,
Meek, as the dew-drops on the flowret's bell
By ruthless tempests to the green-sod prest.
Fond sigh be hush'd! congeal, O! slighted tear!
Thy feeble pow'rs the busy Fates control!
Or if thy crystal streams again appear,
Let them, like Lethe's, to oblivion roll:
For Love the tyrant plays, when hope is near,
And she who flies the lover,--chains the soul!

SONNET XXXIX.

PREPARE
your wreaths, Aonian maids divine,
To strew the tranquil bed where I shall sleep;
In tears, the myrtle and the laurel steep,
And let Erato's hand the trophies twine.
No parian marble, there, with labour'd line,
Shall bid the wand'ring lover stay to weep;
There holy silence shall her vigils keep,
Save, when the nightingale such woes as mine
Shall sadly sing; as twilight's curtains spread,
There shall the branching lotos widely wave,
Sprinkling soft show'rs upon the lily's head,
Sweet drooping emblem for a lover's grave!
And there shall Phaon pearls of pity shed,
To gem the vanquish'd heart he scorn'd to save!

SONNET XL.

ON
the low margin of a murm'ring stream,
As rapt in meditation's arms I lay;
Each aching sense in slumbers stole away,
While potent fancy form'd a soothing dream;
O'er the Leucadian deep, a dazzling beam
Shed the bland light of empyrean day!
But soon transparent shadows veil'd each ray,
While mystic visions sprang athwart the gleam!
Now to the heaving gulf they seem'd to bend,
And now across the sphery regions glide;
Now in mid-air, their dulcet voices blend,
"Awake! awake!" the restless phalanx cried,
"See ocean yawns the lover's woes to end,
"Plunge the green wave, and bid thy griefs subside."

SONNET XLI.

YES
, I will go, where circling whirlwinds rise,
Where threat'ning clouds in sable grandeur lour;
Where the blast yells, the liquid columns pour,
And madd'ning billows combat with the skies!
There, while the Dæmon of the tempest flies
On growing pinions through the troublous hour,
The wild waves gasp impatient to devour,
And on the rock the waken'd Vulture cries!
Oh! dreadful solace to the stormy mind!
To me, more pleasing than the valley's rest,
The woodland songsters, or the sportive kind,
That nip the turf, or prune the painted crest;
For in despair alone, the wretched find
That unction sweet, which lulls the bleeding breast!

SONNET XLII.

OH
! can'st thou bear to see this faded frame,
Deform'd and mangled by the rocky deep?
Wilt thou remember, and forbear to weep,
My fatal fondness, and my peerless fame?
Soon o'er this heart, now warm with passion's flame,
The howling winds and foamy waves shall sweep;
Those eyes be ever clos'd in death's cold sleep,
And all of Sappho perish, but her name!
Yet, if the Fates suspend their barb'rous ire,
If days less mournful, Heav'n designs for me!
If rocks grow kind, and winds and waves conspire,
To bear me softly on the swelling sea;
To Phoebus only will I tune my Lyre,
"What suits with Sappho, Phoebus suits with thee!"*

SONNET XLIII.

While from the dizzy precipice I gaze,
The world receding from my pensive eyes,
High o'er my head the tyrant eagle flies,
Cloth'd in the sinking sun's transcendent blaze!
The meek-ey'd moon, 'midst clouds of amber plays
As o'er the purpling plains of light she hies,
Till the last stream of living lustre dies,
And the cool concave owns her temper'd rays!
So shall this glowing, palpitating soul,
Welcome returning Reason's placid beam,
While o'er my breast the waves Lethean roll,
To calm rebellious Fancy's fev'rish dream;
Then shall my Lyre disdain love's dread control,
And loftier passions, prompt the loftier theme!